Letters from the Sky
by ichigouniverse
Summary: The war is over, and Earth is now safe, holding Lorien inside of it. Despite having won, John cannot find solace in the peace, his loss and guilt plaguing him. He is alive, but is he really living? How can he live with the loss? He would give anything to see his loved ones again, but that's not possible... Is it? This is M/ JohnxHenri
1. Letters from the Sky: Introduction

**xxx**

 **Letters from the Sky: Introduction**

Solitude can be crushing. Silence can become so loud, it's all that can be heard. Many people associated solitude and silence to be something akin to peace, and while that was a logical standpoint, John could not stand it. The world had been saved, and transformed into something of a Lorien successor, but at the same time, so many things were lost. There were so many things John failed to protect, and as punishment, he had to endure the silence upon his shoulders, holding it up with gritted teeth. Many saw him as a hero, someone to look up to. John only saw failure when he looked at his reflection, and it never stung any less. John thought that maybe staying in the cave Eight once found so comforting would cushion the blows, the reminders of all he had lost, but it seemed only to amplify them, bouncing off the cave walls, never slowing. He had to leave.

Finding a place to live was more difficult than he had anticipated, though it was not surprising. He had been the face of the Garde, the face people pictured the most when thinking back to the invasion of the Mogadorians, the one who saved them all. All of that notoriety made it hard to find a place where John could suffer in peace, and maybe even a little comfort. Finding a secluded cabin in the woods suited him just fine.

It had been two years since the defeat of the Mogs, and life had adapted quickly. John knew that there were many human Garde who needed guidance, but he wasn't the one to give it to them. He received invitations from Nine on a monthly basis to come and assume a role of a Cepan, but the mere thought made John's chest feel hollow and heavy at the same time, the memory of his own Cepan much too fresh. John knew that he would never be capable of filling the shoes of a Cepan, the bravest of the Loric. It just wasn't something John could offer, obviously. Everyone thought too highly of him, and he disliked being regarded as a hero; he was anything but.

Worst of all were the dreams. Slumber was not the escape many saw for themselves. John could not avoid his failures no matter if he was conscious or not. His dreams had always been jarring, and once upon a time, he thought there was nothing worse than having to relive the last moments of Lorien every night, He was wrong. While he had an occasional Loric nightmare, the events that occurred on Earth were what plagued him. People dying around him, people who fought alongside him, _for_ him, his friends, the people he loved most, dying. Henri and Sarah, the two closest people to him, dying a horrific death because of him. It was all his fault, and no matter how many times the nightmares repeated themselves, they never hurt less. Their intensity was the only constant in his life now, ever present and always agonizing.

Thinking of Henri was a special kind of pain that never lessened, even as the years passed. It was hard to understand that time would continue regardless of Henri being gone, it didn't seem right. The hole left behind could never be filled, and John knew he would carry this emptiness with him for the rest of his life, and he still wasn't sure if he could cope with that fact. The last memories John had of Henri would haunt him forever. The hurt on his face when he realized John had lied, and the childish remark John followed it with, one that he could never forgive himself for. The last seconds of his life, his last words soothing John, absolving him of his mistakes. _"It's not your fault… Be strong,"_

 _I can't, Henri. I'm not strong enough for this._

Thinking of Sarah hurt more than any other type of pain he had felt, and he had quite a bit of experience to compare. The image of her peaceful face, cancelled out once the blanket was pulled back to reveal the gaping wound that took her from him. The guilt was insurmountable, and her last words etched themselves into his brain, the sound of her last breaths, and how they were for him. The anger that gripped him when he thought of how it could have been different, how he should have been there to stitch her skin back together. How he should have protected her from the components that made up his life.

He was cursed. Becoming close to John was an automatic death sentence.


	2. Chapter 1: Looking Like You Just Woke Up

**xxx**

 **Chapter One: Looking Like You Just Woke Up**

John rocketed through the sky, the surface below blurring as he kept his eyes squinted, the rushing air burning them. He couldn't remember the last time he pushed himself like this. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this kind of intense mixture of anxiety and confusion, his heart pounding against his chest, threatening to burst. He didn't have time to waste, and even though the thought of returning to Paradise usually filled him with an overwhelming sense of dread and guilt, it was where he was headed.

The day had started as any other would. The weather was typical for May in Pennsylvania, a perfect blend between sunshine and a cooling breeze. John woke up drenched in sweat, having braved through another short night of his dreams. Sleep never came easily, and the dreams were a guarantee. Being perpetually exhausted was something he was used to, but it still weighed on him. His phone was vibrating violently against the cheap wooden nightstand next to his bed. He contemplated letting it go, but the name of the caller was too unusual to blow off. Malcolm Goode almost never contacted him, and his sudden call made a twinge of nervousness travel through his chest. Had something happened to Sam? John grabbed the phone, thumbing the screen and putting it to his ear, "Hello?" He was almost startled by the vibration of his vocal cords. He hadn't used them in excess lately. Isolation did that.

"John?" Malcolm said his name as if he were out of breath. This couldn't be good.

"What's up? Is Sam okay?" John hadn't heard much from Sam since him and Six had decided to travel the world together, and secretly John had preferred it that way. He was happy for his friends, but the salt in his wounds hadn't entirely been flushed out.

"Sam? No, he's fine. I'm calling about something very… Well frankly I have no idea how to explain it, or what's even going on," Malcolm paused, but John said nothing. "Listen, this sounds crazy, I know, and I couldn't believe it, and still can't, but you need to come right away."

John furrowed his brow at this, comprehending the panic in Malcolm's voice, but having no idea what he could be talking about. "What's going on? Did you find something?" He asked, frustrated at having to beat around the bush. Malcolm breathed into the receiver, "It's more like something found me, John."

"Can you just tell me? What did you find?" John asked, his patience quickly running thin as his anxiety rose. Malcolm paused again, seemingly catching his breath before answering, "It's Henri, John."

John froze for a second, feeling numb all over, "What do you mean it's Henri? Henri's dead." The words fell heavily from his mouth.

"Yeah, I know. Except he just showed up on my front porch with no idea how he ended up there, and then he passed out on me. He's alive, right now, laying on my couch. John, I really don't know what else to tell you. You need to come here, right now."

* * *

John almost crash landed in the Goode's front lawn, touching down running. Malcolm was already outside, sitting on the front steps leading up to his front patio, looking like he hadn't slept in days and was running on fumes. John staggered to a stop a few feet away, walking quickly to the man, "Malcolm," he addressed him, his voice sounding angrier than he meant, though that was the primary emotion bouncing around in his torso. John hadn't been around another person in a while, and remembering to cloak his emotions was coming slowly. Malcolm put his hands up as if he were surrendering as he stood. "John. I called Adam, he's agreed to come. We need to figure this out," he offered. The words hardly registered to John, stopping just inches from the older man. Malcolm looked at him with wide eyes, as if he weren't sure if he was about to get mowed down by the blond Loric.

"Show me," he said simply. There wasn't going to be any discussion or figuring out until he saw this with his own eyes. Malcolm hesitated before nodding, "He's just inside."

Malcolm led John into the modest structure, the living room looking outdated and neglected, though lived in. The floorboards creaked under their shoes, a dusty looking floral rug sitting in the center of the room under a coffee table crammed with various items, most of which were books, spare metal parts, and used plates. An old CRT television sat against the wall opposite the door, bookshelves lining the rest of the wall. On the shabby three seat couch laid an older man, his length showing how tall he was. His brown hair was graying at his temples, his eyelids fluttering gently. John stared at the man, a heavy feeling developing in his chest, and a lump forming in his throat. This was Henri. The exact Henri he had held in his arms as he died. John had watched the light go out in his eyes, and yet his breathing form laid there was if it had never left. John took a step closer to him, refusing to believe this was his Cepan. How could it be? John had seen him die. He had carried around his ashes through-out his journey two years ago. Henri was dead.

The memory flooded his brain before he could push it back.

 _Henri on the ground, blood pooling underneath him, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. John holding him, the tears blurring his vision as his guardian took in shallow breaths as he spoke. "We've done all we could. And what's done is done. But I'm damn proud of you. You did amazing today. I always knew you would. There was never a doubt in my mind..." His voice was getting quieter, struggling to form words. John shook, unable to hold himself back from the agony flooding him. "I'm so sorry," John choked out, trying to will Henri not to die. Not Henri. Please, not Henri. "Shh, it's not your fault. Be strong." John could feel the sticky warmth of blood seeping through his sleeves as Henri took another shuddering breath. "I wouldn't have missed a second of it, kiddo. Not for all of Lorien. Not for the whole damn world." And then he was gone._

John felt wetness spring to his eyes, swallowing hard. This couldn't be Henri. How could it? This wasn't possible.

The man twitched on the couch, his arm moving from his side like he was about to lift it to his head, but it fell back onto the cushion. All of the air seemed to leave the room as the man opened his eyes slowly, turning his head in John's direction. He looked into his eyes, and his lips parted, "John," he croaked.

 _Henri._

(Notes: I tweaked Henri's death scene a bit, but pulled direct lines from the text. I realize this pairing is a bit odd, but it is my favorite and I decided I wanted to write it out. Feel free to leave feedback!)


	3. Chapter 2: Flesh without Blood

**xxx**

 **Chapter Two: Flesh without Blood**

The sun was setting, painting the sky various shades of blue, pink, and gold. The lush trees blew gently in the wind, and everything seemed just right on Earth. Except it wasn't. The Earth kept on its orbital path, hurtling through space just as it had always done, and yet, nothing seemed right. Reality felt slanted as Malcolm checked Henri's vital signs. The bare bones, nothing fancy or in depth. Adam would be assisting, he had been told, though nothing was really registering to John. He felt as if he were encased in an invisible bubble, all the words bouncing right off the surface and fading away. He kept his eyes on Henri, who seemed uncomfortable in a way John had never seen before. Was this an imposter? John remembered witnessing the awful transformation of Setrakus Ra when he took the form of other people. The thought made John's insides seize with panic. Was this Setrakus Ra in disguise, somehow? Trying to infiltrate by stealing the image of Henri? That would be impossible. Setrakus Ra was dead. But so was Henri, and yet…

"Do you remember anything?" Malcolm prompted, seemingly unaffected by the tension coming from John. Henri absentmindedly touched his abdomen, where the flesh should be burned by the bullet that killed him.

"Bits and pieces… I remember the school and the fight. I remember…" his eyes cast a faraway look before looking down at the floor, "I remember dying." His voice was quiet, disbelief saturating it.

Malcolm sat down in a heap, "Well, that's interesting. Do you remember anything after that?" He was treating this like it was a normal occurrence, as if Henri only had amnesia or something similar. Henri's shouldered tensed as he cradled a water bottle in his lap, having downed half the contents upon waking.

"Nothing concrete. Flashes, mostly. I remember seeing a lot of faces… And a bright light. And then I was on your porch feeling like it had all been a dream," his words were hopeful, as if he was waiting for them to tell him that it _was_ all just a dream.

John hadn't said anything, his jaw clenched tightly. He could remember the metallic scent of Henri's blood, and how it dried black on his clothes. John opened his mouth, "What was your Loric name?" He asked, his voice hard. The two men looked at him, Malcolm's brow raised, and Henri's face tight. He cleared his throat, "Brandon," he replied, "I had a wife named Julianne. When I first went to meet you, your grandfather made your entire house invisible as a prank," he said, looking John straight in the eyes as he did. He had no qualms about answering these questions, and could feel the suspicion radiating off the Garde. John blinked a few times before he gave one nod, looking away. There was no way Setrakus Ra would know that, is there?

Malcolm stood, "I'm going to give Adam another call to see where he is. Mogadorian prison camps can be a bit stubborn, I'd imagine," he strode out of the room, digging into his pocket for his phone. The word 'Mogadorian' had put Henri on alert, his brows knitting themselves together as he tried to decipher the meaning of Malcolm's words. John stared at him, realizing that he had missed almost three years. The last he knew, the Mogadorians were still relentlessly hunting them and terrorizing rural high schools. John couldn't imagine how disorienting this would be to a person, and with that, the first crack in his suspicions made itself known, letting the feelings leak through. John almost wished he could patch it up, he didn't want to feel what he knew was coming. His heart started to pound against his chest cavity again, and that lump in his throat was growing more prominent, practically screaming that it would not be ignored.

"Who's Adam?" Henri asked. John almost laughed. Of all the questions Henri could ask, and should ask, and he picks that one.

"A friend. Also the son of a Mogadorian General. It's a long story," John replied, feeling so odd to be speaking to Henri like this. This was Henri, John decided. There is no way it couldn't be. It didn't make any sense, but they were sitting in the same room together. That persistent lump in his throat wouldn't let up, but John wasn't about to start crying right now. "Henri… None of this makes sense," he started. Henri let out a breath and nodded, but said nothing in return. John opened his mouth to say more, but Malcolm walked in, effectively breaking the moment.

"Adam will be here within the next few hours. Are you up for a history lesson, Henri?"

* * *

Malcolm had left the two men alone in the living room, having decided there was no acceptable food to be consumed on the premises, and left with a promise of bringing back greasy take-out. The silence grew heavier as they heard Malcolm's truck drive away, the crunch of gravel fading. John felt like he was on top of a cliff, mere centimeters from the edge and in danger of falling into the black abyss below. Henri stayed seated on the couch, staring at the floor in concentration as his brain processed what had been told.

The Mogadorians becoming more daring and visible. The discovery of Setrakus Ra, and who he had been. Henri seemed to be having a difficult time digesting the fact that the leader, the driving force of everything that ruined his life, and took it away, was not a Mogadorian, but kin. Or rather, something that had once been kin before it was transformed into something… unspeakable. The assault on Earth, death tolls, destruction, and then light. Loric light that scattered itself across the globe, its pure light soaking itself into the dirt, the spirit of Lorien and the gifts it bestowed on humans. The fall of Setrakus Ra, and peace, generally speaking. Henri couldn't seem to wrap his head around it, shaking it occasionally and flicking his eyes in John's direction from time to time.

As the silence stretched between them, John wondered if he was the one who was dreaming. He was sitting with Henri in a room, like he had never left. He was here, looking at him with those brown eyes gleaming with light. The same ones he had seen lose its light. The memory refused to go away.

"So, you saved the world then, huh?" Henri asked with a slight smile on his face, a mixture of disbelief and maybe a dash of pride. John shifted in his seat and looked away, "Not really," he murmured. John visualized a shell around his heart, and his soul, whatever was left of it. The shell was made of metal, and nothing could penetrate it. Nothing could hurt him. He didn't want to feel the relief, the joy, and the absolute happiness that his guardian was looking at him and smiling. But the shell was cracking and there was nothing John could do about it.

Henri chuckled and shook his head, "No need to be humble, John."

The phrase came out easily, and for a second, it felt as if John had never lost Henri. But he had, and it hurt him in a way that took his breath away. He cleared his throat, unwilling to engage in a normal conversation yet, "Henri, you were dead. You died in my arms," he almost whispered it, his voice shaky, "I carried your ashes around with me for years. You were… gone."

Henri looked at the boy as he spoke, his eyebrows knitting themselves together, the way they did when he was concentrating on something. He let out a small breath, "John, I know. I remember dying, I remember every second of it. I'm not trying to fool myself here, I know I was gone. But I'm back again, and I have no idea why, or how this is possible. But I don't have any answers for you. All I know is that I was dead, and now I'm not."

 _And now I'm not._

John nodded and looked away again. He didn't know what to say, and if he did, he wouldn't know how to say it.

"I guess we should just wait until Adam gets here," John said instead, his thoughts buzzing around in his skull in a whirlwind.

"Why?" Henri asked, looking uncomfortable that they had invited a Mogadorian over to check him out.

"Let's just say that Adam has some experience with talking to someone who died."


End file.
